


Just this Once

by Truth



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Headgames, M/M, Murder, Sex, Violence, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-09
Updated: 2004-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes control of yourself is the most important thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just this Once

**Author's Note:**

> A Crawford/Schuldig piece written for and winning the Yaoi-con fanfiction contest. (2003, I think? I honestly can't remember.)

The ABC of Psychology defines obsession thusly: “An irrational thought which persistently intrudes into consciousness and cannot be willed away. The psycho-analytic view is that an obsession is a way of dealing with impulses that are repressed. The obsession relieves the hidden feelings but obviates the need for action.”

**

Tokyo – The present

Just past three o’clock in the morning, a young man quietly unlocked a door and stepped into the spacious entry hall on the other side. He toed off his shoes, letting them fall beside another, more expensive pair, and moved softly down the long hallway toward a set of stairs. As he reached forward in the darkness to lay one hand upon the railing, the lights abruptly went on.

Flinching at the brightness, the young man whirled, bringing up an arm to shield his eyes. The sleeve of his half-undone shirt was marred by an unpleasant slash of dirty brown which ran from the cuff edge almost to the elbow. His hair, of a shade which could only truly be called ‘orange’, fell nearly to his waist and straggled forward into his eyes. As he squinted through his fingers, trying to make out his unexpected company, a smooth voice broke the silence.

“Where have you been?”

Brussels – Eight years ago

Brad Crawford stood just inside the door of the large meeting room, wondering again exactly what he was doing here. This morning, his immediate future had consisted of nothing more complicated than a quick trip to the Americas in order to begin the process of assembling a new team of field agents. At twenty-one years of age, this would be his first actual command and it had been a great honor to be so chosen.

His original itinerary had called for him to begin at the British Columbia school. As he had entered the airport, however, a glimpse of red and black had flickered across the edge of his vision, demanding his attention. A young, arrogant face tilted to give him a secretive smile and he found himself trading in his ticket for a later flight to Brussels.

It was rare for his precognition to demand such an abrupt change of plan, and he had learned early on to obey these particular impulses implicitly. Something would happen in Brussels that would be essential to his future, something involving a flame-haired boy with strangely knowing eyes.

The Brussels school was one of the oldest, an established institution wherein young ‘gifted’ children were given the finest and most expensive education to be had in Western Europe. The grounds and buildings were not only isolated but carefully surrounded by some of the best security measures in the world. The brightest and most promising children were sent here. It was Estet’s showpiece, built to impress those they courted under the mask of “benevolent guidance”. Few realized that the prestigious educational organization hid a front for a much larger enterprise, power-hungry and seeking young, impressionable minds. Estet’s agents were carefully recruited and trained to their own purpose, psychic terrorists and assassins whose aim was nothing less than destruction and anarchy on a global scale.

Crawford knew something was wrong even as he pulled up to the high gates. The guards, visibly agitated, ran only a cursory check on his identification before waving him through and returning to their hushed conversation. It was against every regulation to allow a visitor within the complex without an assigned ‘guide’. Frowning, the American parked his car in the assigned spot and headed for the administrative offices.

He received no challenge upon entering the building which housed the main Estet presence in the facility. Scowling, he moved swiftly through the suspiciously empty foyer. Whatever events his gift had been warning him of were evidently well underway. There were two places where he should be able to find someone in a position of authority, the main conference room being the more likely choice.

As usual, his hunch turned out to be well-founded. The missing security personnel were gathered outside the closed doors of the conference room, murmuring nervously. They seized upon Crawford’s unauthorized presence as a welcome distraction, pleased to be confronted with something ‘normal’. They checked his fingerprints and physical description against the records before quizzing him extensively on his mission and presence at the training facility.

While his immaculate three piece suit and calm expression spoke volumes, Crawford was almost obscenely young to be placed in charge of a full team of field agents and the skepticism of the guards was something he was growing accustomed to. In return for suffering patiently through the rigmarole, Crawford was rewarded with a rather intriguing story.

Three months ago, one of the younger and more gifted field agents had turned on his team leader, leaving her to drown in her own blood as he took her team and completed their mission. Flawlessly. Three and a half weeks ago, the same agent was formally charged with assaulting two instructors at the school in Nice. In both cases he walked away without so much as a single black mark on his record.

Last night, the same young man had murdered his latest team leader. He had not bothered to deny the charges; had, when apprehended, still been holding the knife which he had used to slit the sleeping man's throat.

“Master Edouard arrived this morning to conduct an inquiry,” the security captain told him. “He was... most unhappy with the circumstances.”

Crawford nodded and quietly opened the door. He wasn’t surprised by the crowd in the large room, or by the angry muttering from all sides. Raised voices came from the group gathered around the large desk at the far end of the room. Assorted agents and school staff were finding seats at the longer tables. Avoiding the milling herd, Crawford chose a spot to one side of the main doors and leaned against the wall. He allowed his eyes to linger on the arguing group beside the desk. An ancient tapestry hung on the wall behind them, a distinctive mix of shapes and colors that had drawn his attention when he had first seen it and again when he had ‘seen’ it at the airport, a vibrant backdrop to the sudden vision which had drawn him here.

Edouard was current head of Estet regional operations for this theater. With someone of his rank taking a personal interest in the matter, things were bound to become interesting.

‘Let the games begin.’

Tokyo – the present

In the small hours of the morning, voices were raised, biting sarcasm against slurred bitterness.

“What, exactly, were you hoping to accomplish by roaming the streets like a wild dog? Are you chasing oblivion, or just death? If it’s the latter, I am strongly tempted to give it to you!”

“What the fuck does it matter what I wanted? It never has before. Go ahead, Crawford, shoot me. You'd finally be happy and there would be stately dances in the halls of Estet. Hooray, hooray.”

“Do not push me on this, Schuldig.”

The younger man leaned wearily against the wall, his leader’s angry words still ringing in the air. Schuldig still wore his ‘work’ clothes despite the number of hours since their evening assignment had deteriorated into disaster. Sometime during the night the scarf which held his hair back had been lost and the long strands clung to his face, emphasizing his sharp features. The ruined shirt and inebriated slouch to his tall frame only added to his obvious fatigue. Right now Schuldig looked more like a cheap drunk than a deadly assassin.

Crawford didn’t look much better, in sharp contrast to the well-groomed image he normally showed the world. The precognitive’s jacket had been discarded and his tie jerked askew although his vest was still neatly buttoned. There were marks on his pant legs to match the dark stains on Schuldig’s sleeves, crawling upward from the soaked cuffs toward his knees. He raked one hand impatiently through dark hair and behind the thin-framed glasses, his eyes gleamed with fury.

The telepath had broken one of the cardinal rules: going out and getting himself trashed in a public place. He had disappeared from the hospital hours before, the blood on his sleeves and hands still wet. Schuldig was trouble looking for a place to happen at the best of times, but this - Crawford was not going to ask why. Schuldig probably didn’t know himself. It had been a stupid thing for an assassin to do, even more so for a hunted man. The telepath had to have known that. He had simply not cared.

In point of fact, Crawford knew his telepath had been out looking for a fight, though he’d never get the younger man to admit it. Perhaps Schuldig had been unconsciously radiating the fact, for clearly no one had been stupid enough to give him any excuse to vent his frustration – or if they had, there had been no witnesses. Crawford doubted it had come to that, however. Schuldig was obviously still struggling with whatever had sent him out of the hospital and away from his team. Schuldig would not have picked a fight with Crawford had he managed to find an opponent anywhere else.

With Crawford, there were always consequences.

Schuldig apparently felt that the silence had gone on long enough and shot Crawford an angry glare. “Look, just what the hell is your problem?”

Crawford raised one eyebrow. “You almost get our information retrieval team killed, disappear for six hours, come home drunk and I’m suddenly the one with the problem?”

“You've always had a problem. You have ridden my ass since day one about being more responsible, more careful and generally more like a total robot. You’re never satisfied with anything that I do. The harder I try, the more spectacular the blow-up when I fail. I'm beginning to wonder why I bother. Nothing I do is ever good enough.” Schuldig closed his eyes, almost projecting his desire for nothing more than another drink followed by blessed unconsciousness.

Crawford scowled at the younger man. Schuldig hadn’t over-indulged in years and almost never in a public place. Each and every episode had led to a confrontation, if it hadn’t been sparked by their arguing in the first place. How many times had these same accusations flown back and forth? How many years had they been at each other’s throats whenever something went wrong? It had been years since they had been able to solve their conflicts peacefully and it sometimes seemed that the brief period of understanding which they had enjoyed had been doomed to failure from the start.

After a few moments Schuldig opened his eyes again, but Crawford was no longer paying attention. He stared at a spot just to the left of the telepath as an unwelcome vision forced itself on him, dark eyes slightly unfocused behind his glasses. Schuldig watched him for an instant and then turned away to climb the stairs. He’d barely put one foot on the lowest step when a hand grasped his elbow and jerked him back.

Crawford’s attention had again become focused on his flame-haired companion and the glare he directed at his captive was darkly accusing. “Just how drunk are you?”

“Very,” Schuldig told him bluntly, removing the offending hand. “And I plan on becoming even more so once safely within the confines of my own room.”

“So that was the basis of your activities this evening? Drinking yourself into unconsciousness? Do you plan these little episodes?” Crawford asked him, his voice sharp. Schuldig was indeed still drunk but Crawford judged that it would wear off into a hangover soon enough unless the telepath found more alcohol. “Are you really trying to get yourself killed?”

Schuldig visibly braced himself for round two. Rhetorical questions were used solely on occasions when Crawford was royally pissed off and his entire team knew it. The only question to consider at that point was whether he would be brought to task for past transgressions or an unknown future misdeed. “Can’t we have this discussion in the morning?” he asked wearily. “I fucked up. Hugely. Again. I know this. You know this. Several other people are even more aware of it... can we just leave it at that?”

“Tomorrow you are going to the hospital....”

Schuldig cut him off, his lips twitching slightly. “I stopped at the hospital somewhere between my first and second bar. I made my apologies, held their little hands and told them a goddamned bedtime story. I swore up and down that I’d be on my guard next time and not let the bastards get to me. What the hell more do you want?”

Crawford narrowed his eyes, ignoring the final question. “It was an easy assignment. All you had to do was watch their backs while they worked. Instead, they were nearly killed. Three people are in intensive care tonight, one of them ours. How did those men get past you, Schuldig?”

Schuldig looked down at his feet, expression tightening and a silence stretched between the two men.

“Sober up, damn you.” Crawford turned away, anger still written across his features. “We have too much to do to take the time to coddle you while you destroy what few brain cells you have left.”

Schuldig remained leaning against the wall, letting his heavy eyelids slide closed. Apparently the memories invoked by Crawford's question had taken all of the fight out of him. Quietly, he said, “I don’t want to be sober just now. In fact, I’m going to go straight to my room and become even drunker.”

Fingers closed on his shoulder and jerked him away from the wall. Schuldig relaxed, letting the older man take his weight. Crawford frowned at the unaccustomed surrender. Schuldig apparently didn't care enough to resist anymore and that irritated Crawford almost beyond measure. “You are not going to drink any more tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” Crawford's tone was ice itself. He shifted his grip to Schuldig's upper arm and dragged the telepath back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Schuldig found himself rudely propelled into a chair. He let his head sink to rest on the table while Crawford made coffee. Except for the small, angry noises produced by the American's activities, the house was strangely silent. Schwarz was a four man team and, while Nagi may have been in the hospital, four minus one doesn’t usually equal two. After a few minutes, Schuldig turned his head to one side.

“Where's Farfl?”

“It's almost 3:30 in the morning. Where do you think he is?” A mug of coffee was placed on the table beside Schuldig with an angry snap. “Drink that.”

Schuldig did so, nearly burning his tongue. The mug was instantly refilled. “I’ll never manage any sleep if you keep this up,” he protested.

“You will finish the coffee, you will flush the last of the alcohol out of your system, you will go upstairs to your room and you will sleep.” Crawford informed him. “As you have already been to the hospital, I will allow you to sleep until afternoon. At that time, you will give me your full report.”

“You might as well have it now,” Schuldig told him, starting on his second cup of coffee. “You won’t like it any more tomorrow just because I’ll be sober.”

“Drink the coffee.” Crawford’s tone allowed no room for argument. The caffeine would keep Schuldig awake until his drunkenness wore off, although it would probably increase the hangover.

Schuldig drank the coffee. He finished his second mug and stared at the older man as he refilled it. Crawford was also still wearing his ‘work’ clothing, although the American had supposedly been home for hours. Schuldig had seen the filthy shoes resting by the door when he came in and now found himself staring at the correspondingly gore-clotted trouser cuffs. There had been plenty of time for Crawford to change into more casual clothes and at least clean the blood off his shoes.

Being drunk, it took Schuldig some time to work his way through this, and Crawford could almost follow the train of thought as he watched blue eyes move from his stocking-clad feet to his face and back down. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Crawford sat down across the small table and glared at his rebellious comrade. “You are.”

“How so?” Schuldig asked muzzily. He squinted at the mug of coffee but did not drink. “I mean, how so more than usual?”

“Because you persist in doing as you please, regardless of the possible consequences.” Crawford snapped. He set the steaming coffee pot down on the table with a thud. “It does not matter how many times we have this conversation, you still continue to act and react according to your bizarre inner urges.”

“And this is why you were waiting for me to come stumbling home? Normally when you want to shout at me you don't let it keep you awake. ‘Let’s see, Schuldig will come home at 2:00 am, let’s set the old alarm for 1:50 so I can be waiting for him when he comes in’.”

“Drink the coffee,” Crawford ordered.

Schuldig didn't move. “No. You're acting weird and I want to know why.”

The American's jaw tightened. “Drink the damn coffee.”

“No.”

For all the arguments and misunderstandings that cropped up between the telepath and his leader, it was very rare that Schuldig simply dug in his heels and refused to cooperate. Crawford knew from bitter experience that any attempt to force the issue would only lead to total insubordination on Schuldig’s part until his question was answered. The balance of power between the two men was delicate enough that Crawford would be unable to compel Schuldig to cooperate.

Crawford considered his options. Lying would be his normal reaction to such a question, but Schuldig would know. He might not be able to figure out exactly what the older man was hiding from him, but he would still recognize the lie. Telling the truth, on the other hand, held dangers of its own. He thought for a moment of the vision he had seen in the hallway and came to a decision. Without further effort on his part to sober the German up, Schuldig would end up blissfully unconscious in just an hour or so. He might as well take this golden opportunity to get a few things off his chest, especially as his audience wouldn't remember them in the morning. Schuldig had difficulty sensing lies by omission and under these circumstances, a half-truth would do. Crawford had no intention of ever letting the telepath know exactly what had kept him awake and pacing for hours while the blood dried on his normally pristine clothing.

Schuldig waited impatiently, flicking one finger against the edge of his coffee cup. Crawford always became very frozen and closed off when any of this team got too close to a subject he didn’t want to discuss. The telepath might not be able to see the workings of Crawford’s mind, but they both knew that long practice had taught him how to read the other man’s almost non-existent facial expressions. Schuldig did not appreciate being left out of the informational ‘loop’ and had a way of expressing his displeasure under such circumstances that was nothing short of hellish.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, Crawford pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. He looked at it for a long moment and then pushed it across the table at Schuldig. Blinking slightly, the telepath picked it up.

“What's this?”

“Read it.”

Shrugging, Schuldig sprawled back in his chair and opened the notebook. Crawford’s writing was neat, naturally, and the contents of the small book were in English. It wasn’t one of Schuldig’s favorite languages, but Crawford knew the telepath was fluent enough that he found it relatively easy to read, even when slightly drunk. The caffeine was obviously beginning to have an effect on his alertness, but Schuldig was still far from sober.

The first few pages of the book were merely brief lists of times and places, most of them neatly marked off with a single line through the entry. It was common knowledge among the members of Schwarz that Crawford kept a log of his more significant visions, brief notations to act as reminders. Every time and place he could positively identify was carefully taken down to be checked and verified. These particular notations appeared to be actual event trees, however, each date having several corresponding entries along divergent paths. The telepath still wasn't thinking clearly enough to draw conclusions based on any of the specific events listed in the little book and continued to turn the pages.

It wasn't until the tenth page that he reached the list Crawford intended him to see. Instead of dates and events, there was a single column of names. Every name on the page was familiar, and every name but one had been neatly crossed out. Frowning slightly, Schuldig quickly scanned the rest of the book. It didn’t take long, as almost a third of the pages were blank. The content appeared to be nothing more than that single, short list, surrounded by pages of Crawford’s cryptic notations regarding the ever-changing future.

He flipped back to the list, running his fingertip across the only unmarked name on the page before finally giving in  
to temptation and reading it aloud. “’Schuldig.’” He looked up at Crawford questioningly.

“Very good,” Crawford congratulated him dryly. “Look again.”

Scowling, Schuldig turned back to the book. The list was comprised entirely of telepaths, he discovered. The names appeared to be listed by the strength of the individual gift. His name appeared relatively close to the top, unsurprisingly. There was a date written beside each name, presumably corresponding to the date that Crawford had crossed it out as the only name without a date was his own. The dates ranged from the day Schuldig had become a member of Schwarz right up until about two years ago when their carefully planned betrayal had thrown Estet into chaos.

Crawford watched calmly as Schuldig did the calculations in his head. It took him a great deal longer than it should have, but alcohol clearly still had a grip on the telepath. Eventually a pair of angry eyes looked up at Crawford partly concealed by an uncontrolled fall of fiery hair.

“You bastard. Looking for a replacement for me right up until the last possible second, weren’t you? What would you have done with me then? Slit my fucking throat and held me up as a warning to your next poor dupe?” Schuldig's voice was surprisingly steady, although the hands holding the small book shook slightly with tension. “You were looking for another telepath from the day you took me on. Why the hell did you bother with me in the first place?”

Crawford retrieved his notebook and flipped it closed. “You were the best choice for the job at hand,” he told Schuldig coolly. “You increased the odds of success exponentially.”

Schuldig made an angry noise, not quite a curse. “That didn’t keep you from looking for someone else. We made our escape. Estet doesn’t hold our leash anymore. Why do you keep me now? Why the hell didn’t you just get rid of me after I did your fucking job?”

“I toyed with the idea for a while,” Crawford admitted. “I could have made it work with one of the others. You were simply the best available choice. That's not why I kept you with Schwarz, however.”

“Then why?!”

This was the crux of every argument, every fight they’d had over the past few years. To discover after almost a decade of following Crawford’s sometimes indecipherable orders that he had been considered expendable… no surprise that Schuldig was not taking it well.

Crawford leaned slightly back in his chair, watching the younger man through narrowed eyes. “You are my object lesson.”

“What?” Schuldig blinked, obviously confused.

“You despise me for my control,” Crawford continued conversationally. “You spend an ungodly amount of time trying to work your way around my rules and restrictions. You hold everything that I am in contempt even though you owe your freedom and your very life to that same dedication.”

Even drunk, Schuldig wouldn’t pick a fight on that basis. Crawford's careful manipulation of his ability and almost obsessive attention to detail had indeed saved Schuldig's life more than once. It still didn't answer the question, however, and Schuldig wanted that answer. “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“You are a creature of impulse,” Crawford told him. “You see something shiny and you absolutely must have it, no matter the cost. Half the time you don't even bother to think about what it is that causes that sparkle before you’ve put your fingerprints all over it.”

“Thank you for that mental image. Get to the fucking point!”

“Have you ever stopped to consider what would happen if I simply reached out and took what I wanted, regardless of the consequences?”

The question hung between them for a long moment. Schuldig put his head back down on the table while he considered it, pillowing his chin on his arms so he could continue to look at Crawford.

“No. I didn't think you were capable of it. You’re a total control freak. I’ve never seen you react like a normal human being to anything.”

Crawford gave him a twisted smile. “No, I suppose not.”

Schuldig looked very confused and no longer inclined to blame the alcohol content of his blood for this mental state. He stared blankly at Crawford.

“I am not by nature a self-sacrificing person, Schuldig,” Crawford began, choosing his words with care.

“Shock. Surprise. Horror.” Schuldig mumbled the words sarcastically, his attention captured by the restless play of Crawford’s hands. He had begun flipping the little notebook end to end between his hands, an example of tension that he had never displayed in front of Schuldig before.

“I have vices, even if I only choose to indulge in them rarely. There are things that I want. Unlike you, however, I think about things like cause and effect.” He caught the focus of Schuldig's gaze and stilled the movement of his hands. “I can see the consequences of my actions.”

“Look, are you going to get to the point some time tonight?”

Crawford ignored the comment, instead placing the book on the table. “I am angry with you because I live every single day with the knowledge that there is something I want that I can never have. I have never replaced you because having you right in front of my eyes reminds me that there is always a price to be paid for self-indulgence, and sometimes that price is simply too high.”

“I don’t understand.” Schuldig sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “You’re pissed because I get to just do whatever the hell I want and you can’t? You're taking out your frustrations on me just because I don’t always analyze everything to death? What the hell does that accomplish, other than making me feel like shit?”

“Do you know what I think about, late at night?” Crawford asked, conversationally.

Schuldig blinked. “I’ve had too much to drink. I’m passed out somewhere and all of this is just a hallucination. You never tell me this sort of thing. You never tell _anyone_.”

Crawford raised his eyebrows and waited for Schuldig to figure out this was indeed reality. He couldn’t blame the younger man for his surprise, however. Schuldig had often and publicly complained that, if he went in for that sort of thing, Crawford would have a tattoo that read ‘Knowledge is Power’.

Schuldig pinched himself and winced. He looked again at Crawford and appeared to seriously consider the question for a moment before giving up. “What do you think about?"

“Consequences.” Crawford rose from his seat and walked around the table, stopping beside Schuldig. “Do you know what keeps me from simply taking what I want?”

“What?” The telepath repeated, craning his neck to meet the other man’s eyes.

“Death.” Crawford stared back down at him, his expression unreadable. “Yours, to be exact. No matter which way I twist and turn it, no matter what decisions I make or how hard I struggle it never changes. If I take what I want, you are the one who will pay for it. I can delay your death, but I cannot stop it.”

“So you keep me around as some sort of masochistic walking post-it note? I never thought you gave a shit whether I lived or died as long as I got the job done. I did what you chose me for, you said so yourself. Why the hell should my dying bother you now!?”

Crawford shook his head. “It doesn't matter.”

“The hell if it doesn’t!”

“This conversation isn’t going to stay with you, you know.” He reached out, pulling the German to his feet.

“Why not?”

“Because despite everything, you are still going to go to your room and drink yourself into a stupor,” Crawford told him. The taller man released Schuldig's arm. “When you wake up, you’re not going to remember anything beyond the fact that we had another fight.”

“We did have another fight,” Schuldig protested, swaying slightly and fighting to keep his balance.

“We did.” Crawford agreed.

“And you didn't tell me anything!”

Crawford laughed softly. “Good night, Schuldig.”

For several long minutes after Crawford’s departure, Schuldig stood beside the table, staring down at his feet.

Eventually, he shook off whatever thoughts had permeated the beginnings of his hangover and headed for the door. “Fuck it.”

Schuldig was half-way out of the kitchen and well on his way to the prophesied bottle in his bedroom when he came to a sudden halt. He slowly retraced his steps, a wicked smile crossing his face as he trailed long fingers across the smooth top of the table. His voice held a note of astonished triumph as he halted beside Crawford’s now-empty chair.

“Crawford, you’re slipping….”

Brussels – the past

Master Edouard was indeed not in the best of tempers. His mood did not improve with the reaction to his entrance, a sudden rise in volume instead of the customary respectful hush. Scowling, he stalked to his place behind the podium and favored the murmuring agents with an iron glare.

“Order. The assembly will come to order!”

Nearly five minutes passed before everyone found a seat. Crawford watched and waited through it all with the calculated patience that had become his trademark. As the furor finally trailed away, the tall American caught the tail end of a conversation between two of the agents closest to him.

“...knew that he did it. I asked him where Cassandra was, and he just… smiled. It was as if he didn't care that I knew.”

“What I want to know is how he managed to surprise her. It’s hard to sneak up on a prescient.”

Crawford shifted slightly closer to the conversation, but Master Edouard had finally come to the end of his patience.

“As most of you are undoubtedly aware, Robert Lacosse was murdered last night by one of his own team. Charges have been laid and the accused will be brought forth to answer them.” Edouard’s scowl became even darker as he began to recite the rather imposing list of charges.

No mention was made of the previous incidents, Crawford noted as Master Edouard snapped out each increasingly serious accusation. If this agent had been absolved of at least one prior charge of assault and murder the decision had to have been handed down from the highest levels. Edouard was not suicidal enough to imply that his superiors could have been mistaken.

The Head of Regional Operations had progressed all the way from willful disobedience and insubordination to premeditated murder when the doors to the meeting room swung dramatically open. Concealed behind one of the high doors, Crawford had to wait a moment or two before the new arrival actually appeared in his line of vision.

The first thing to catch the American’s attention was the long tail of flame-orange hair that fell down the young man’s back as he sauntered toward the desk at the far end of the room. Dressed completely in black, he wore heavy boots and a leather coat that brushed against his buckled ankles as he walked.

A movement at the desk jerked Crawford’s notice back to Edouard. The regional administrator stumbled over his words and then ceased speaking altogether, dark face paling.

Two more people had moved smoothly into the room at the heels of the first. Master Edouard stiffened to something like military attention and a minor scramble ensued as everyone else rose hurriedly to their feet. All eyes were turned toward the doorway – with a single exception.

The young man in the long coat spun lazily with a flare of dark fabric to lean against the desk, crossing his legs and tossing that long tail of hair forward over one shoulder. Estet’s schools all had a strict no-smoking policy, but Crawford felt no surprise at the lit cigarette held precariously in the twist of a familiar mocking smile. After all, he had seen that smile just hours before, although the sinking feeling it produced in his stomach was definitely new.

The two adults followed more slowly in the teen’s wake, stopping in front of the desk to nod politely to Edouard before turning to face the rest of the room. The sinking feeling abruptly intensified. Crawford knew them both,although he had never learned their original names. The eyes of the Estet High Council were always designated Huginn and Munnin, [1] appropriately enough. The current Huginn was an African woman in her late thirties, tall, haughty and possessing cold, dark eyes. She was a highly rated telepath/empath, among other things. Her companion, an equally highly rated telepath/telekinetic who specialized in torture, hailed from Thailand. He was a short, round man in his late twenties, already fighting a receding hairline.

These two were the direct agents of the High Council itself. When they spoke, it was with the Council’s voice. When they acted, it was with the full support and direction of the Council. Their presence here argued that the High Council was not only fully aware of recent events, but also that Master Edouard was not trusted to correctly interpret the desired results.

Huginn swept a cold gaze across the occupants of the room before speaking. “In the matter of Schuldig and Lacosse, the evidence has been reviewed and all charges against the accused are to be dropped. It has been ruled a case of extenuating circumstances.”

Crawford glanced at the teenager, who had chosen to lean back against the desk and was currently engaged in blowing smoke rings. He appeared lazily content, as if there had never been any doubt as to his exoneration. Master Edouard, on the other hand, looked as though he were about to suffer a debilitating stroke.

“Schuldig has been reassigned to headquarters, and he will accompany us there now,” Huginn continued calmly. “Any further inquiries or complaints should be directed to Personnel.”

The silence which followed this pronouncement showed that everyone understood there should be no such inquiries. Munnin turned to look at the teen. The boy shrugged and carelessly flicked the remains of the cigarette onto the floor, grinding it into the carpet before pushing away from the desk.

“Show’s over, folks. Nothing more to see here.” Schuldig, for that was undoubtedly the boy’s name, turned and blew an insouciant kiss at Master Edouard. With a self-satisfied smirk, he left the room as he had arrived: in a swirl of black, trailing a tail of flame behind him with his silent escort at his heels.

Crawford looked down at his watch as the doors closed again behind them. ‘Four minutes, ten seconds. I'm... impressed.’

It took another twenty seconds by the expensive timepiece before the shock wore off the rest of the audience. As bedlam broke out, Crawford slipped quietly from the room. A thoughtful frown and furrowed brow were the only outward signs of his inner turmoil as he moved slowly back toward his rented car. He had seen what he had come for, and nothing would be gained by attempting to accomplish anything amidst the chaos that the boy had left in his wake.

‘He has power. He has charisma and confidence. He is young and extremely dangerous....’ Crawford's frown faded into an almost predatory smile. ‘He is exactly what I need.’

Tokyo – the present

Crawford woke at 7:30 am precisely. He tended to his morning ablutions, dressed and made his way down to the kitchen. What he found there effectively ruined his carefully planned morning.

In the center of the kitchen table sat the empty coffee pot. Beside the sink rested the evidence of someone else’s breakfast.

There was no sign of the notebook.

Rarely did one of Crawford's short-term visions not come to pass, usually requiring direct outside intervention – unless he decided to take matters in hand himself. The notebook should have been perfectly safe where it lay on the table.

Frowning, he left the empty kitchen only to discover that the living room was similarly deserted. Crawford stalked from room to room, cursing silently as he realized that there was no one at all in the common areas and even Farfarello’s door stood open, revealing only emptiness.

The precognitive found himself at last in front of the closed door to Schuldig’s bedroom. He stared at it for a long moment. The absence of the other inhabitants had to be by design. Crawford had left very specific orders after last night’s debacle that no one was to go anywhere without authorization. Whatever had happened after he left Schuldig last night was going to have far-reaching consequences and not just because he was probably going to throttle the younger man.

‘Damn him.’

Crawford had underestimated Schwarz's telepath. He had taken the vision of drunken collapse as a certainty and allowed himself the luxury of saying aloud several things that he had promised himself Schuldig would never hear. Schuldig’s reckless behavior occasionally lured him into forgetting that the younger man was a creature of will.

Schuldig allowed his impulses to rule him because he trusted them far more than the actual thoughts that ran through his head, and with good reason. Telepaths were difficult to work with and everyone in Estet knew it. Iron discipline was required to control a subordinate who could so easily lose track of which thoughts were truly their own. Worse, the stronger the power, the younger they began to lose their sense of self. No wonder then that instability and psychoses ran rampant among those bearing this particular ‘gift’. It was more common for a telepath to be put down by his teammates as a danger than to die while on a mission. Few, if any, lived to middle age with their sanity still intact.

Schuldig controlled incredible power, even compared to his Estet-trained peers. While he was forgetful, rash, self-indulgent, quick-tempered and cruel, he was also loyal, both to his leader and his teammates. More than that, he remained the irritating, flamboyant bastard he had always been, his core personality intact. He could still wring a reaction from the hardest and most controlled people with a simple dismissive flick of his hand or the sardonic arch of one of those thin, red brows. It was a talent that had nothing to do with his telepathy.

In the years Crawford had known him, Schuldig had shown very few signs of the more destructive behaviors that were common among his peers. He did not kill indiscriminately, he did not prey on his teammates and he’d neither lost himself in the morass of thoughts surrounding him nor drained himself to a husk in a vain attempt to keep himself completely separate. The American had seen older telepaths manage to retain their control only to lose their ability to reason, becoming automatons that reacted and responded to the thoughts and desires of others, no longer able to generate rational thought of their own.

Crawford had underestimated the strength of Schuldig's will. Despite his occasionally erratic behavior, the younger man had a very dangerous way of seeing right into the core of things. It was a habit which had apparently not been dulled by their current employment. Even through his drunken fog, Schuldig had recognized what Crawford had been trying to do and deliberately set out to sabotage the vision which had made it ‘safe’ for the precognitive to speak his mind.

The question that occupied Crawford now was exactly how much Schuldig had managed to change things, a question he would not be able to answer without further information.

Frowning at his own inadvertent wool-gathering, Crawford opened the door.

Schuldig’s room held very little. A few pieces of furniture, an expensive stereo system and one or two books made up its contents. The ruined shirt had been flung across a chair along with the rest of the clothes he had been wearing during their earlier encounter.

Schuldig himself was lying on his stomach on the bed, dressed in the loose pants he used as pajamas. His hair had been tied back for sleeping, the loose tail falling to one side. The telepath’s attention was centered on a tablet of paper that was covered with scribbled calculations, and he was idly waving one bare foot in the air as he muttered quietly to himself.

Beside the tablet rested Crawford’s missing notebook.

“What are you doing, Schuldig?”

“Reading,” was the less than helpful response. Schuldig finished whatever he had been writing and rolled over onto one side. He dropped his pencil onto the pad as he stared thoughtfully up at Crawford.

“My notebook?” Crawford held out one hand, his voice cold.

“Bastard,” Schuldig told him, tone matching Crawford’s. “ _Your_ notebook? That fucking notebook is the story of my life!”

“Is it?” Crawford stepped inside, his severe expression never changing. He closed the door behind him before moving further into the room.

“Do you only have one of these? Should I be worrying about waking up one morning to find a brand new psychopath carving his initials into my face?” Schuldig swung his legs off the bed and sat up. “Or should I be flattered that I'm the only one whose life you’ve been screwing around with?”

“Let it go, Schuldig,” Crawford warned, narrowing his eyes.

The telepath rose from the bed. “I can’t,” he hissed. “This is my life. It’s all I have.”

Crawford frowned. It was perhaps unfortunate that Schuldig had chosen to take this as attempted slavery, but while that would make this an uncomfortable encounter it could have been worse. Much worse. “I am merely attempting to keep my team in one piece. Let it go."”

“Liar.” Schuldig turned to retrieve his own notes from the bed. “You’re not getting out of this that easily. You’ve been tracking my every possible move on a mission since before you recruited me. A very neat trick, considering the trouble they went to just to keep that sort of thing from happening. You’re the first person to ever see me coming, Crawford, and I want to know why.”

Somewhere over the Atlantic - the past

Schuldig was trouble. Obviously.

Crawford leaned back in his seat, waved away the steward’s offer of alcohol without really registering his presence and flipped open his laptop. The sleek machine rarely left his side; the personnel files alone had taken years to gather and possession of such classified materials would be enough to get him executed if his duplicity were ever discovered.

Although if they ever discovered the dream which had set him on this path he would probably end up praying for his death. While Estet had rather interesting views on internal espionage, their handling of traitors was the stuff of nightmares.

Crawford shoved the unpleasant thought from his mind with the ease of long practice. By the time his flight arrived in British Columbia his plans would be safely back on track. In the meantime he would find out what he could about the boy who could so effectively pull the rug out from under a room full of senior agents.

Some of what he found in the files was no more than he had expected. Schuldig had been acquired by Estet over ten years ago, removed from an insane asylum in West Germany at the tender age of six. Despite a rocky introduction, the child telepath had displayed an incredible talent from the very beginning.

Granted private tutors and kept carefully separate from the main Estet educational system, he had scored incredibly high in almost every administered test, physical, mental and scholastic. The German teen was a prized toy of the Estet High Council, as if Huginn and Munnin’s mere presence that morning hadn’t proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Crawford frowned slightly as he scanned the file again. Schuldig appeared to come and go as he pleased, just another spoiled brat indulged by the elders in certain habits in order to ensure his loyalty. And yet….

There were irregularities in the file, gaps without any explanation. The blank periods ranged from a few weeks to a gaping hole of over a year. And the date - Crawford could feel his brows drawing into the beginnings of a scowl. The boy could not have been more than thirteen during that absence and a quick search through his stolen files turned up no clue as to where Schuldig had disappeared to. A bad sign, that. Estet did not make a habit of misplacing its students.

Schuldig’s more recent appearances and disappearances coincided a little too closely with certain events that Crawford had been keeping an eye on. The wickedly smiling redhead had to be one of the High Council’s most trusted agents. All that remained was discovering which one. The American paused, checking the dates and times again. Yes. It was possible that Schuldig was Estet’s current executioner. More than merely possible, in fact.

Under normal circumstances, Crawford would have merely chalked up his impulsive visit to Brussels as a warning. His precognition did that sometimes, sending an impulse rather than a direct vision of danger. If he continued on his present course, he would undoubtedly end up the focus of that very dangerous young man’s professional attention.

Fair enough. However….

He scrolled back to the section on mental evaluation. Schuldig was a powerful telepath, had been since birth, but his skill showed no recent improvement. The boy’s secondary gift, while useful, was almost laughably weak. All the training and honing that Estet provided had not produced advancement in any of his scores since that strange gap in his files three years ago.

To be what Crawford suspected at the boy’s indicated level of power argued for control equal to the American’s own and a mind that could move and twist reality at a speed almost impossible to counter. It also argued for a very carefully hidden or repressed secondary gift, which made his supposed secondary actually a tertiary and screamed of unexplored depths.

Crawford’s mind produced a vivid picture of that black-clad form leaning lazily against Edouard’s desk, cigarette dangling from smiling lips and eyes sparkling. Schuldig’s easy control of the situation came not from his hidden status, but from somewhere within. The boy was more than even his masters knew, more than anyone would ever be allowed to explore. Schuldig would kill to hide his secrets, without compunction or remorse.

A second flash of images came then, brought before him by the insistent whisperings of his own gift. The boy, older now and taller, leaned carelessly over his shoulder to tap one finger against the screen of his laptop. The long hair was no longer pulled back by a tie but held away from his face by a band of yellow. That slightly drawling voice told him, ‘Screw it. Our best chance is going to be to pull them in after us. I want them where I can see them when the world comes apart, Crawford. We've risked too much to let them fuck this up for us now.'

Crawford blinked slightly, refocusing on the back of the seat in front of him. Normally, his visions only reached a very short distance into the ever-changing future. The further away they were, the less accurate they became. Schuldig had no longer been a teenager in that vision and, according to his files, the telepath was only just closing in on his seventeenth birthday.

Thoughtfully, Crawford closed the laptop. He needed Schuldig, that much was now obvious. However, the boy had a streak of stubborn independence that he did not like. His plans, although carefully laid, depended strongly not only on subordinates he could control, but ones that he could trust to actively support him.

But he wanted the boy. Crawford always tried to be honest with himself, particularly when dealing with a matter as important as this one. He wanted the power that Schuldig controlled. He craved the fear and respect that he knew would come with the possession of the redheaded teen.

News of the events in Brussels would spread far and wide, through every branch of Estet. Whatever the reason for Schuldig’s actions, recent publicity and his subsequent retrieval by the ‘eyes’ of the High Council meant he would no longer be allowed to keep his prior position. Now would be a good time to ‘discover’ the boy’s lack of an assignment and put in a request. No one else would be foolish enough to demand someone with so much of his fellow agents’ blood on his hands. Successfully acquiring this boy would only add to Crawford’s reputation as someone to be feared and obeyed.

Always provided he could keep Schuldig from slitting his throat.

This would require careful thought.

Tokyo - the present

This was not going to be pretty, although that had been fairly obvious from the premeditated removal of witnesses. Before Crawford had requested his services, Schuldig had been regarded as untamable and rightly so. It was well known that the young German was fire and that anyone attempting to handle him would be badly burned. That alone would have been enough to bring him to Crawford’s attention eventually. The carefully hidden secret of his other occupation had been merely icing on the cake.

Schuldig had always been difficult to predict and harder still to control; a challenge that begged to be taken up. By promising him a chance at freedom, Crawford had purchased the younger man’s loyalty. Even a leashed dog can savage its master, however, and Schuldig had never been what one might call docile.

That was, after all, the point.

“I can’t trace all of these dates,” Schuldig began, tossing the tablet at Crawford. “Although it’s interesting to know that you were among my audience in Brussels.”

Crawford caught it easily and looked down at the scrawled notations. The telepath might not have been able to figure out the significance of everything in that little notebook, but he had caught more than enough.

Ignoring Crawford’s silence, Schuldig scooped up the other man’s notebook and continued. “I figured that the entries you didn't mark were things that you changed, because most of them don't mean anything to me.” He flipped the tiny notebook open and leafed through it. “I was getting really frustrated until I noticed that the few I did recognize right off the top of my head – all hooked up with the dates here.”

Crawford didn't have to look up to know that Schuldig had stopped at the list of names. He continued his own perusal of Schuldig’s scribblings. There was little to no chance of salvaging this encounter. The younger man had not, as he had feared, added two and two together. No, life with the German was never that easy. Schuldig had taken two and two and multiplied them. Fortunately, higher mathematics was not one of Schuldig’s strong points and the notebook wasn’t quite as easy to figure out as it looked.

“These were the only dates that I could easily identify,” Schuldig went on. “It was simple enough once I knew what to look for. For each name there is a date - noting a day I almost died! What were you doing, marking off my chances? Counting down my opportunities for escape until I had nowhere left to run?!”

Crawford's free hand went up almost reflexively, catching the notebook that Schuldig had just hurled at his head. Crawford looked at him then, pulling his attention from the calculations on the tablet.

Schuldig’s eyes were bright with anger, but his expression was uncharacteristically cold. “At least two of the events that you crossed out are the dates when someone else died. I wonder just how many people you’ve murdered over the years to keep me from being reassigned or killed. I wonder how many assassinations I‘ve carried out were nothing more than exercises to keep me out of harm's way.”

Crawford shrugged. “It is none of your business what I choose to do.” He tucked his notebook into the inner pocket of his jacket and frowned.

Softly, dangerously, Schuldig asked, “If you've been keeping such a close eye on me, how did you miss what happened last night?”

“Too many variables, probably.” Crawford adjusted his glasses, looking down his nose at the younger man.

“Maybe. Maybe it was because they weren't after me,” Schuldig pointed out. His eyes glinted dangerously as he stalked toward the older man. “If you try to leave this room without giving me the truth, you will regret it. This is my life that you’re fucking around with here. If you do not have a damn good reason for everything that you’ve done, I will be the one doing the walking.”

Crawford stood half a head taller than the German, his immaculately clad frame and severe expression the epitome of power and control. Half-clad and disheveled, Schuldig should have looked ridiculous as he closed in on his leader.  
Crawford knew better. The younger man was a prowling jungle cat to his own wolf; willing to share a habitat but never a member of the pack.

Switzerland – The past

“You’ll have your hands full with this one, Oracle. He has problems with authority and a smart mouth.”

Crawford nodded dismissively and signed the last of the forms to complete Schuldig’s transfer. The middle-aged lady in charge of the paperwork frowned at his lack of reaction and tried again.

“He’s dangerous.”

Nodding again, Crawford slid the papers into the appropriate envelope and handed them to her. Turning, he moved down the short hallway to the door behind which his new subordinate was waiting.

His entrance was greeted by a hard, assessing glance, cold blue eyes flicking once up and down taking in the older man’s faultless appearance. The American was dressed in a conservative cream colored suit with a carefully knotted silk tie. He was the picture of the average corporate executive, save for his relative youth and the dark fringe of slightly unruly bangs falling forward into equally dark eyes.

Crawford adjusted his glasses and stared impassively back. Schuldig’s long, brightly colored hair was now held back only by a pair of expensive looking sunglasses. His uniform black had been discarded for white with a green, tailored coat over the slacks and open-necked shirt. Hands stuffed in his pockets, the telepath slouched against the back of the chair nearest the door and raised an eyebrow.

“So you’re my new keeper?”

Crawford offered him a slight smile. “More or less.”

Schuldig tilted his head to one side and narrowed those sharp blue eyes, intent on gaining the measure of the man before him. “You requested me. Why?”

“Because I have something that you want,” Crawford assured him with quiet confidence.

“I doubt that,” Schuldig replied dryly. He frowned slightly. “I can’t read you. That’s unusual.”

“It’s intentional,” the American told him, his smile never fading. “I wouldn’t be attempting to suborn Estet’s most promising telepath if there were any chance of being found out.”

The telepath tensed slightly, but didn’t actually move. Very carefully he asked, “Is that why you asked for me? Because you think that I….”

“I know what you are, Schuldig,” Crawford assured him, watching the German teen carefully. “I know you’ve been hiding the true strength of your abilities. I told you, I have something that you want.”

Tokyo – The Present

Crawford closed his eyes and bowed his head, searching swiftly for some way to reclaim control. The alternatives that flashed before his eyes ranged from the incredible to the merely painful. If he deviated at any point from utter and total honesty in this, Schuldig would simply disappear. While this had its positive side, Crawford was unwilling to make that trade off.

Schuldig waited, jaw clenched with anger. It seemed a very long time before the precognitive brought his head back up and fixed him with a familiar, cold gaze. “Keeping you with me, under my eye, is the only way that I know I can keep you alive.”

“Did you ever think that I might not choose my life over my freedom? I followed your plans because they promised me a future!” Schuldig clenched his hands into fists. “All I did was trade one form of slavery for another.”

“I gave you your life,” Crawford pointed out calmly. “Perhaps it wasn't what you would have chosen for yourself, but I thought you would prefer this to getting yourself executed or ending up the drunken victim of some third rate mugger in a dark alley somewhere.”

“You don't know that,” Schuldig grated. “Only I can decide my own future.”

“I don’t need to be able to see your future to know that you’re better off here than on your own.”

“That’s not your choice to make!” Schuldig clung to his self control, but the effort clearly cost him dearly. “Why did you do this to me? Why are you _still_ doing this to me? Those last few entries are for next week!”

Crawford narrowed his eyes, lips thinning as his expression became darker. Anger took the place of frozen poise as he tossed Schuldig’s own notes back at him. “Think carefully about this, Schuldig. There will be consequences. If you push this, you will change things. Permanently.”

Schuldig let the tablet flutter to the floor, never taking his eyes from the older man. “Maybe I want things to change. You go on and on about my never taking responsibility for my actions and then it turns out I never had any control over them anyway. This is my choice, and you aren't going to take it away from me. Talk. Now.”

Crawford folded his arms. “I think that you've summed up the situation rather efficiently. There isn't much left for me to say, is there?”

Schuldig moved like quicksilver but Crawford was ready for him, hands flashing forward to catch a blow that had not even begun before it was aborted. Crawford’s eyes widened slightly as he recognized the feint an instant too late.

“You aren’t infallible.” Schuldig snarled, stepping away. “Tell me why you are doing this to me or I will leave you high and dry. Schwarz can't hope to survive without me now, and we both know it.”

Crawford stared at Schuldig, his mind racing. The images flickering in his peripheral vision told him that he had only moments to keep Schuldig from carrying through with his promise to leave. The younger man truly valued his freedom more than his life and would not hesitate to take his chances alone, no matter how slim they were. There was more going on here than he knew, obviously. If he hesitated or prevaricated, Schuldig would simply walk away.

He could not allow that.

‘The truth?’ Crawford found himself reaching forward without any further thought.

Schuldig's eyes widened involuntarily as a hand slid into the thickness of his hair, dragging gently downward until it met the tie. Long fingers twisted and Crawford watched as a torrent of flame spilled over his arm. Crawford pulled slowly away, letting the colorful strands slip through his fingers.

“....” Schuldig stared up at him, shocked beyond speech.

Crawford gave him a slow, cruel smile. “I told you that I had vices, Schuldig.”

Recovering quickly, the telepath scowled, taking a swift step backward. “Back when you thought I wouldn't remember it. What the hell are you playing at?”

“Playing? Is that what you think this is?” Crawford closed the distance between them with one quick stride. “Consequences, Schuldig. Remember?”

This time, Schuldig held his ground. Throwing out an arm, he planted his right hand in the center of Crawford's chest. “I’ll worry about it later. I want that explanation right now.”

“It is easy enough. I needed a telepath, a powerful one, and as you pointed out earlier, I am a ‘control freak’. But that's only half of it.” Crawford’s smile never wavered as he again reached out toward the vibrant fall of the telepath's hair.

Schuldig made no move to stop the older man, his gaze never leaving Crawford's face. His voice held an interesting mix of apprehension and anger. “You’re after what I am, not who. This isn’t really about me, is it?”

“Yes and no.” Crawford slipped his fingers upward, brushing them against the younger man’s cheek as he seriously considered the answer. “Not entirely.”

Keeping his palm firmly pressed against Crawford's chest, Schuldig stepped away again, his retreat finally brought to a halt by the wall beside the bed.

“There were over a dozen names on that list. If you wanted to play power games with the life of some lucky psychic bastard you could have chosen any one of them. You said yourself that you thought about replacing me more than once. Why are you fucking with my life? What is so special about ‘Schuldig’!?”

“You?” Crawford allowed the telepath to keep his distance, bringing his arm back to his side. “You _are_ power, Schuldig. Most of Estet was, is, deathly afraid of you and with good reason. The things that you’ve done since becoming a part of Schwarz have only added to your reputation. Do you have any idea what it feels like to hold your life in my hands, knowing that of all the people on this planet I am the only one who can do so?”

Schuldig let his own arm drop, eyes wide. “You are totally insane.”

“Am I?” Crawford chuckled softly.

“What kind of lunatic would play that kind of game with someone who can kill them?” Schuldig demanded. “You could have pulled this on most of the others and gotten away with it clean.”

“I could have,” Crawford confirmed. He watched the younger man struggle for a moment. Schuldig would come up with the correct answer quickly enough, and Crawford wanted a good look at the expression on his face when he did.

It was well worth seeing. Schuldig’s features slipped from anger to something approaching horror before settling on a look of tight-lipped apprehension. “You chose me because I might catch you out. Just how much of my life has been my own that it took me this long to trip you up? You’ve been controlling me for years!”

Crawford’s smile widened fractionally. “You are power, Schuldig,” he repeated.

“And you get off on that, don’t you?” Schuldig accused, mind flashing over every mission, every episode where Crawford had used him to instill fear in others as the American stood to one side, watching. “You are absolutely loving every second of this!”

“I am,” Crawford admitted. Schuldig’s face still held apprehension, although anger was quickly replacing it, but the younger man had no idea what to do with this new information. The precognitive waited patiently for Schuldig to make up his mind.

Schuldig settled on anger, unsurprisingly. “What the hell is this? You’re some sort of closet thrill-seeking, danger junkie and I’m your secret obsession? That’s it, isn’t it? You're obsessed.”

Crawford’s smile faded. He would not deny the charge, not when it was so obviously true. Even he could not pinpoint exactly when his careful observation of the unpredictable telepath had taken its turn into actual obsession. Crawford turned and dropped to one knee, scooping up Schuldig's tablet. The telepath watched him warily, unsure what new revelation Crawford would choose to spring on him. It took Crawford only a moment or two to find the notation that he wanted. He rose, holding the notes out to Schuldig.

“Do you remember this?”

Schuldig snatched the tablet, glancing at the indicated date. “That’s one of the earlier ones. We were in Germany, weren’t we? That was the night Farfl got his arm broken. I couldn’t figure out what it had to do with me.”

“That was the day that I decided it wasn’t enough just to control you,” Crawford told him softly, gaze intense. “That was the day that I realized I wanted far more. I wanted to push you down on the nearest flat object and force you to scream my name.”

Schuldig, almost beyond surprise now, narrowed his eyes at Crawford. “What stopped you? Other than the realization that I would probably have fried every synapse you have.”

“Instead of Farfarello getting his arm broken, you would have been shot. Fatally.” Crawford’s voice was totally matter-of-fact as he reached out and pulled Schuldig's notes from his unresisting hand.

“What? How?”

Crawford shrugged, flipping through the tablet. “I don’t know. The only random element that I could find was my desire to fuck you senseless.”

“Is this something that you think about often?” Schuldig demanded incredulously, eyes widening slightly at Crawford’s unaccustomed vulgarity.

“Yes.”

“Definitely obsessed.” Schuldig forced himself to look at the situation objectively, an exercise in self-control that would have done credit to Crawford himself.

Crawford waited, wondering what was going through the telepath’s mind. Schuldig had the occasional lover, although he was never foolish enough to allow them any idea of who or what he really was. Like most Estet telepaths, Schuldig did not seem to have a set preference as to whether his infrequent lovers were male or female. His on-the-job seductions did not count. Schuldig’s powerrendered any need for actual physical congress unnecessary. It was only required that his targets believed that he had slept with them and that could usually be taken care ofwithout the telepath even having to be in the same building. No, Schuldig selected his lovers to some internal criteria that had nothing to do with gender and Crawford had no idea what those criteria were, only that he had never met them. That could, however, be due to the fact that Schuldig could not read his mind and Crawford had never in seven years given any hint that he had any interest in the younger man.

“So you have been acting like an asshole for as long as I’ve known you because you want to have sex with me?” When Schuldig finally spoke, he could not keep his disbelief from coloring the question.

“No.”

“Then what the hell is this all about? Other than your obvious need for therapy of some kind.”

Crawford chuckled again, looking up from Schuldig's calculations. “Sex, while apparently pivotal, is not my priority. I don’t really care what you do with your time for the most part. I don’t care where you go or who you screw.” Crawford once again ghosted his fingers across Schuldig’s cheek. "You have always jumped when I told you,even if it wasn’t in the direction that I wanted. In public, you have always been the perfect subordinate. On a professional level, I do own you, and I’m not interested in having that change.”

“You’re giving me a headache,” Schuldig complained. He pushed the loose hair out of his eyes and glared at Crawford. “This is all a drunken hallucination, isn’t it? I never really sobered up last night. That must be it.”

Crawford tossed the tablet on to the bed and gave Schuldig a look which promised a great many things, none of them anything that the telepath would ever have believed the older man would indulge in willingly. “Would you like me to convince you that you’re entirely awake?”

“No. Thanks anyway.” Schuldig bit back the urge to scream with frustration.

Crawford closed the distance between them and stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t want unquestioning obedience, Schuldig. I’m not interested in having you dancing constant attendance on me. A subordinate

who has to be constantly monitored and told what to do is nothing but a hindrance. For all your obstinacy and impulsiveness, you can at least be trusted to think for yourself. If I was after some sort of slave I would have discarded you instantly for someone more... pliable.”

“You're obsessed with me, fantasize about me and want the world to think I’m your puppet,” Schuldig blinked in disbelief. “How the fuck have you been keeping all that inside for... how many years now?”

Withdrawing his hand, Crawford shrugged. “Practice. Are we through here? You wanted to know what was wrong. I told you.”

“But nothing has changed. You’re still obsessed,” Schuldig snapped. “And it's creeping me out.”

Crawford shrugged again. “That would be your problem now, wouldn’t it?”

“Look, this is dangerous shit. This could be used against us, Crawford,” Schuldig snarled. He would know; he had turned and twisted such obsessions himself, broken people in half with the force of their denied emotions. Desire, particularly frustrated desire, was among the most powerful tools in the telepath’s arsenal. Obsession was actually much stronger and correspondingly more difficult to work with.

Crawford settled into the chair beside Schuldig's desk and looked up at the younger man. “How, exactly? They aren’t trying to catch me, Schuldig. They are trying to kill me. You’re the one they want, and I doubt you would be willing to throw away your precious freedom for me.”

A crooked smile flashed across Schuldig’s face. “No one would expect me to. But if they did catch me, they might decide to try taking you alive.”

“If they caught you,” Crawford assured him grimly, “I would already be dead.”

Tokyo – Two and a half years ago

Crawford found himself in the living room of the suite shared by Schwarz during this final, pivotal assignment. He moved to the window, staring out at the brightly lit buildings. If the High Council’s machinations went ahead as planned, the city would shortly be nothing more than a burning wasteland.

“Do you really believe it?” Schuldig had followed him silently into the room. He leaned against the frame beside the older man, turning his back to the view to gaze at Crawford. “What you told Nagi, I mean?”

Crawford gave him a half-shrug, reaching up to remove his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose. Schuldig watched this maneuver thoughtfully. Crawford rarely showed outward signs of inward emotion, particularly stress. What he chose to do with his hands was usually a good sign of exactly what was going on. Any gesture associated with the glasses indicated something deeply internal and such gestures weren’t common. It hadn’t been very long into their association before Schuldig discovered that Crawford’s glasses were of a prescription mild enough that he only actually needed them for driving or distance work. Crawford used them as a part of his shielding, an artificial barrier to keep the world at an emotional remove.

“Do you really believe it?” Schuldig repeated his question softly, seizing this rare moment of psychological vulnerability. “All of this stuff about ultimate power and the end of the world?”

“I believe that they believe it,” Crawford repeated his earlier statement to Nagi with a tired sigh for emphasis. “That doesn’t make it true, but it also doesn’t make them any less dangerous.”

“You really believe that we can pull this off?” Schuldig reached out to pluck the forgotten glasses from Crawford’s fingers, folding them neatly and tucking them  
into the older man’s breast pocket. Crawford allowed the contact, a degree of familiarity which would have surprised anyone outside of Schwarz. In truth, Crawford was concentrating on the question, only peripherally aware of Schuldig’s actions.

“I believe that this is our best and possibly only chance,” Crawford admitted slowly, turning from the view to look at his companion. “After that, we need only avoid the consequences for a brief period. With the destruction of the High Council and the aftermath to clean up, it will take them some time to realize that we are not also among the dead.”

Schuldig frowned, his fingers still resting lightly on the pocket he’d slipped the glasses into. “What do you see, Crawford?”

‘I see an obsession.’ Crawford stared into the familiar blue eyes with something akin to shock. Long, bright hair, a faint scowl pinching the familiar, fine-boned features…. Crawford found himself desperately fighting the desire to bury both hands in that hair and kiss Schuldig until the younger man ran out of air. The realization was an electric tension that crawled across his skin. He knew that his treatment of the telepath had been slowly changing, his perceptions shifting. Crawford had somehow missed the moment when Schuldig had become the absolute center of his thoughts but he knew now that it was the truth. This was far more than he had suspected. This, this was dangerous. He looked down to see that his hand had come to rest over Schuldig’s, their combined weight pressing the glasses against his chest.

 _A high-ceilinged room rang with the sound of destruction. The stone floor and tall pillars magnified the noise of disintegrating masonry somewhere not too far away. Fast moving forms in black and white could be seen here and there among the columns, but only a single pair was clearly visible. Schuldig, hair undone and clad most atypically in a white suit, engaged in combat with a tall young man in a long black coat marked with white crosses. Suddenly, his opponent threw out an arm and a silver thread looped from his hand, catching the fast moving telepath around the neck. There was a twist and a jerk…._

Crawford tightened his fingers around Schuldig’s before dropping the telepath’s hand. He stepped quickly away and retrieved his glasses. Slipping them on, he turned again to stare out over the city. “Nothing of consequence, Schuldig.”

‘Nothing at all.’

Tokyo – The present

Schuldig leaned back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. He held that pose for several minutes, gaze unfocused as he chewed over Crawford’s unexpected revelations. Something seemed to strike him finally, blue eyes widening, and he shot a sidelong glance at Crawford.

Crawford caught the look, but could not manage to decipher it. Occasionally the person who looked at him out of the telepath’s eyes was a stranger, someone much older and darker. Crawford hated that sense of ‘other’ with a passion that sometimes surprised him.

“That's hardly comforting,” Schuldig murmured finally, his mind clearly somewhere else. “I don't know how the hell you managed to hide it this long.”

“Self-control. You should try it sometime.”

“Self-control is highly overrated and that’s not the issue here anyway. This is a problem. A real problem. You can't just carry on like this for so long without some sort of repercussion.” He paused for a moment, that distant, dark look still in his eyes. “…something has to be done.”

Crawford raised an eyebrow. “What would you suggest? Working it out of my system somehow? The basis for this entire mess is the fact that any relationship between us beyond the professional level will result in your death.”

Crawford watched with interest as Schuldig fought an internal battle. The telepath obviously wanted some sort of closure to this encounter, and Crawford silently wished him luck. He had lived with this for years and had been unable to find a resolution, no matter which path he chose.

After several minutes, Schuldig appeared to reach some sort of epiphany. Catching his lower lip between his teeth, he gave Crawford a considering look. “What if I'm not interested in a relationship with you?”

The question caught Crawford flat-footed. In every vision he had seen, Schuldig had been surprised, but willing. He had never seen the telepath reject him, no matter how often he had played the various scenarios out through his fore-sight. Schuldig read the tiny furrowing of his brow correctly and produced a twisted smile.

“What if it were just this once?”

With a jolt, the pre-cognitive found himself searching for the most likely consequences of this decision.

 _Himself, a young woman on his arm, entering a conference room full of men in business suits._

 _Farfarello sinking to his knees in a pool of blood, surrounded by nameless bodies._

 _Schuldig confronting a dark haired stranger in an alley over a rapidly cooling corpse._

 _Schuldig wrapped in the arms of...._

Crawford blinked, jerked out of the strange progression early. That was so unlikely as to be ludicrous. However, any step beyond the initial vision became less and less certain and this was the first time that Schuldig's death had not appeared as the first or second possibility.

“Well?” Schuldig raised both his eyebrows and smiled teasingly. Now that his decision had been made, he would throw himself into it as fully as possible. That was simply his way. Crawford's passion for perfection and control extended to everything that he did and the telepath knew it. Sex in which his partner went unsatisfied would be a failure, and Crawford did not allow himself the luxury of failures. The very aspects of the American that drove Schuldig practically to homicide were the same ones which would probably make this the best one night stand of his life.

Crawford took in that teasing smile and those half-lidded eyes and decided that it would be enough. “‘Just this once’,” he echoed softly, rising from the chair.

Schuldig reached out and tugged gently on Crawford’s tie. “Farfl won’t be back until this evening. That should give us plenty of time.”

It occurred to Crawford that this was certainly not Schuldig’s first choice for a resolution of the situation, but he did not let the thought bother him. Crawford enjoyed absolute control but that was not what he wanted from Schuldig. It never had been.

Power is an aphrodisiac, admittedly. Power without risk, however, lacks a certain spice. This was what had drawn Crawford to Schuldig in the first place; the desire to control and manipulate Estet’s most feared agent and executioner. Crawford wanted to command the fire that had burned everyone before him and drink in the power and respect such control would bring. Schuldig would never allow himself to be mastered, however, posing a constant, intoxicating challenge.

Playing with fire indeed.

With a sudden feral smile, Crawford pushed the younger man against the wall. Hands wandered skillfully across Schuldig’s bare chest as he leaned forward. Lips pressed firmly against his and Schuldig’s tongue darted out to tease its way inside his mouth. Crawford’s hands ceased their explorations and took hold of Schuldig’s waist, drawing his half-naked body more firmly against that of the  
older man.

Schuldig moved then, hands sliding upward and burying themselves in Crawford’s hair. With a practiced gesture, almost a caress, Crawford’s glasses were removed and discarded by those same long-fingered hands. Relaxing his hold somewhat, Crawford allowed Schuldig enough space to remove his jacket and vest.

Another passionate kiss, fingers tangling in long, bright hair, and Crawford drew away again as his cufflinks were dropped to the floor and his shirt swiftly unbuttoned. Schuldig had no intention of wasting time, apparently. Neither man was a novice and there would be no hesitance or uncertainty about this encounter. Crawford’s belt joined his cufflinks, and the crisp, white shirt slid off his shoulders to catch at his elbows. Schuldig slid his hands up Crawford’s sides and pressed against the taller man.

“I’ll admit that I have, once or twice, wondered what you’d be like in bed,” Schuldig murmured, lips brushing against the edge of Crawford’s jaw. “I never thought I’d get the chance to find out.”

Crawford smiled as he shrugged out of his shirt, responding to Schuldig’s statement by leaning in for another warm, lazy kiss and tugging the younger man down onto the bed. For all of Schuldig’s apparent willingness, there was a gleam in his eyes which promised little in the way of easy submission.

He’d have been disappointed to see anything less.

Tokyo – Some hours later

Perhaps it was premonition. Perhaps it was simply the memory of what had happened the last time he had drifted off in the arms of a lover. Whatever the reason, Crawford was still awake when Schuldig untangled himself and slid from the bed.

Schuldig stretched, totally unselfconscious of his state of undress and general dishabille. His hair fell untidily into his eyes as he relaxed and turned to face Crawford. A sleepy smile of anticipation gave him the air of someone not only well-fucked, but about to do some serious screwing over of his own. Crawford was intimately familiar with the expression, and felt something cold and hard settle in the pit of his stomach.

Schuldig made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, hip pressing against Crawford’s, their skin separated only by the thin sheet.

“What can you see in my future now, Crawford?” the telepath whispered, leaning forward and staring down into dark, unshielded eyes. “You’ve had everything that you’ve ever wanted from me. You’ve used me and twisted me from the very day you first laid eyes on me. You’ve taken everything that I ever had to give. Now that you’ve had me, will you throw me away? Turn your energies toward some other trusting fool?”

Crawford tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but Schuldig would not allow it, hands coming down on his shoulders and pressing him into the softness of the bed.

“This isn’t….”

“Oh, but it is,” Schuldig contradicted him, tilting his head so that long strands of hair brushed gently against Crawford’s chest. His gentle smile and soft, almost fond whisper held overtones that were usually reserved for his victims. “Now that you’ve had me, what will you do if I decide not to let you go?”

 _Blood, viscous and red, covering every surface within easy reach. A long white coat with skirts spread out like surrealistic angel’s wings, darkly tainted with the life’s blood of the young man who wore it. Long hair, stained to an even less likely shade, almost floating in the blood that still leaked sluggishly from the broken body. The form he knew so well now twisted and partially shrouded by the ruined coat, one arm outflung, fingers curved as if beckoning him closer. "A smooth voice spoke, both familiar and taunting. “He took a long time to die, Oracle. Said he wanted to last long enough to see the look on your face when you found him.”_

Crawford could feel his face paling as Schuldig’s bedroom swam back into view. He fought back mild nausea caused not by the scene itself, but by the expression worn by the dead man in his vision, face tilted just enough so that it would be clearly visible to someone in the doorway. Blood trickled from the corner of a dreamy smile, twin to that worn by the telepath leaning over him.

“Hmmmm. Something artistic, I think,” Schuldig predicted, the dark gleam in his eyes almost a physical heat as he allowed his gaze to wander across Crawford’s mostly uncovered body. “Something with a lot of blood.”

“What do you think you’re doing,” Crawford demanded, anger winning out over shock. He closed his hands over Schuldig’s and surged upward, shoving the German away. “What is wrong with you!?”

Schuldig did not resist the maneuver, tilting his head slightly and never losing his smile. “Wrong? Nothing new, I’m sorry to say. Did you think that I would let you walk away from what you’ve done to me, Crawford? Did you think you could let me find out how you’ve used me and get away unscathed? You’ve just made everything that I am, everything that I lived for, a lie.”

Crawford had nothing to say to that. Schuldig seized the opportunity, leaning close again and lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Does it hurt to know that if you’d been honest you could have had me at any time? Did you think that you knew me, Crawford?”

“Yes,” the older man admitted, eyes narrowing. He had thought he knew everything there was to know about Schuldig. A soft, internal voice chose that moment to chime in, ‘Everything but that missing year….’

“No one owns me,” Schuldig told him, expression suddenly cold. “No one controls me.” He withdrew from the bed, making his way to the closet and pulling forth various articles of clothing.

Crawford leaned back on his elbows and watched. Something was terribly, drastically wrong with the telepath. Worse, Schuldig knew it, knew and had been carefully concealing it. Schuldig’s natural response to people who made him angry was simply to kill them. This was… extreme, even for Schuldig. Crawford was too angry to analyze the things Schuldig had said right now, but he knew that the answers would come to him later.

He would make the time to figure out what had gone wrong.

Schuldig finished dressing and returned to the bed, resuming his seat beside the older man. As if sharing the thoughts churning behind Crawford’s carefully constructed shields, he paused before leaning forward again.

Crawford did not protest as fingers skimmed the edge of his jaw and were drawn lightly down his throat. This too was about control, and he was not going to come out of this encounter beaten.

“We were never really friends, were we?” Schuldig’s expression was contemplative as he asked the question, his hand retreating to his side.

“No.”

“But we were more than mere associates.”

“…Yes.” Crawford could see what was coming next and was surprised to feel the beginnings of pain.

“…‘any relationship between us beyond the professional level will result in your death’,” Schuldig quoted softly, that terrible, dreamy smile making a sudden reappearance. “I will work for you. I will kill for you. I will do as I’m  
told and do it well. I will allow you to choose my future until we have finished our current business.”

Crawford waited. He knew when he made his choice, reached out to run his fingers through bright hair, that there would be consequences for them both. He had chosen this, chosen the anger and the hate. He could live with it. He’d have to.

“I don’t want to see your face except in passing,” Schuldig told him. “I don’t want to hear your voice unless you’re issuing me an order. I will live under the same roof and eat the same food with perfect civility, but you will be a stranger to me.”

Crawford nodded, mind still playing the disturbing image of the telepath’s death over and over behind his eyes.

“You can no longer control me, Crawford.” Schuldig reached out again, fingers gently tracing the line of the other man’s jaw. “You will have no power over me that I do not grant you.”

Crawford closed his eyes as Schuldig leaned forward to give him a last, passionate kiss. He was out of breath when Schuldig pulled away, knowing without having to be told that he was flushed and disheveled.

“Abuse that power even once,” Schuldig whispered, “and I will take matters out of your hands for good.”

Several long minutes after the door clicked shut, Crawford remained in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He did not see the neat rows square tiles or the white globe of the light fixture. His field of vision was filled instead with black and red and white, seen hazily through the ghostly apparition of a dreamy smile and a pair of dead, half-lidded blue eyes.

Interpreting the images brought to him by his gift required knowledge of the subject, information on the events leading up to the circumstances of the vision and a logical projection as to the results of that brief glimpse into the future. He had never been able to isolate what it was that would lead to the telepath’s death because he had been missing one vital element of Schuldig’s own, personal make-up.

Schuldig was as much of a control freak as Crawford in his own way, had to be in order to rein in his gift. Crawford had seduced him into treason and murder with a simple promise of freedom from Estet’s totalitarian controls. To learn that his promised freedom had been nothing but another carefully constructed cage had twisted something long broken inside Schuldig… something Crawford was now certain was related to that missing year.

‘It was never an accident or a murder.’ Crawford’s breathing stuttered as realization swept over him. ‘Every time I watched him die… was suicide.’ Somehow that hurt even more than Schuldig’s earlier admission, a bitter twist somewhere in the back of his mind letting him know in no  
uncertain terms that he had no one to blame but himself. The often-seen death had not been a result of Crawford’s acting on his sexual attraction to the telepath but Schuldig’s reaction when he discovered the lies.

‘No matter who held the knife or pulled the trigger, it was always Schuldig. If I had given in just once, seduced him without the truth, he would have eventually realized what I had done. He would have died and I would never have known why.’

Crawford saw again the slowly widening pool of blood and that dreamy, frightening smile. If he overstepped his new boundaries, twisted Schuldig’s freedom again, the younger man would show no compunction in destroying Crawford’s most prized possession. Himself.

In the silence of the bedroom, he heard his own voice whisper, “’Just this once’.”

It had been a self-fulfilling prophecy, all of it, and nothing would ever be the same.

**

1\. Huginn and Munnin were the ravens of Odin. Translated most often as ‘Thought’ and ‘Memory’, they accompanied him on his travels and, when he was at home, brought him word of all that went on in the world.


End file.
